Our Constant in the Universe
by summerartist
Summary: Chekov is a brave and brash young officer. Sometimes he forgets that when he stumbles, the crew is there to catch him. Sort of a sick fic with fluff and friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Author Notes: I decided that I had to post this after researching traditional Russian and Scottish dishes, because I was putting too much thought into it to keep it to myself. I have tackled this plot before in different fandoms.

I'm not a Star Trek purist. So if you have come here to correct my use of technological terminology, I will express dismay over your apparent boredom. Edit: I have quickly fixed the ranking now. Le sigh. I'm a TOS and reboot Trekkie.

This story takes place sometime after Star Trek: Into Darkness, but does not reference the movie plot line.

* * *

The Enterprise was crowded with the refugees. They were in the hallways, in the sickbay, and in the technician rooms. The ship was practically overflowing with the Telecarthans. Though they looked vaguely humanoid, their long, saggy faces gave some of the engineers the creeps. They spoke in what seemed to be a jumble of buzzy, grumbly noises, but standard English was their second language. Their technology was advanced, almost equivalent to that of Vulcans.

Chekov stepped over several of the Telecarthans in the hallways.

"Excuse me, excuse me. I have to get to ze bridge."

They stared up at the young officer and blinked their beetle-black eyes. They were a quiet group, only losing their diplomacy with Scotty. The technician had been complaining about their presence when they adjusted his equipment. The Scotsman had launched into an argument with their leader earlier that day.

"No, my data pad does not need a new setting! It works just fine without your 'fixing!' Get your greasy mitts off my cabin environmental controls!"

They had taken the most offense to being called "greasy," and had only calmed when Kirk had placated them with a promise of a speedy disembarkment once they reached their destination. The majority would be leaving the vessel upon their arrival to the planet of their cousins, but the beings needing medical treatment would stay aboard.

Chekov had finally reached the bridge, glancing at his superiors before sliding quickly into his seat. His hackles were raised when he could feel the eyes of both Spock and the captain on him. He busied himself with the ship controls. There was little to do, since their course was already plotted, but Chekov kept himself looking busy by checking on the core and their thrusters.

"Glad you could join us, Ensign." The captain said dryly.

Chekov winced.

"Sorry 'kaptain."

Sulu turned slightly towards him at the consul. The navigator felt blood rise to his face, flushing his cheekbones.

"Leader Elsar of the Telecarthans is demanding an audience, captain." Spock's cool voice cut through the air.

"Again?" Kirk's voice rose.

"He demands that Mister Scott be subjected to disciplinary action. I agreed that Lieutenant Uhura be the one to handle the situation, if that would be agreeable…" Spock trailed off.

Kirk sighed. "It would be appreciated if you could practice your diplomacy on them, Lieutenant."

Uhura smiled in his direction.

"Rest easy, captain. I have it handled." She left the bridge, posture tall and head held high.

Sulu was still sneaking glances at Pavel. Checking on their distracted captain, Sulu leaned forward and whispered.

"Are you alright, Pavel? Your hands are shaking."

Chekov nodded. "Yes. Yes, quite alright."

He spoke quietly, unwilling to gain the attention of the bridge crew. The Russian put effort into holding his hands still, checking their coordinates. Sulu raised an eyebrow before turning back to his ship's computer.

Sulu had been doing that often: asking how Chekov was and then resuming his stony silence, but not before expressing some form of incredulity. It was if he expected a different answer at some point, like he was biding his time.

Everything went back to normal on the bridge, save for Doctor McCoy popping up every now and then to give them the status of the injured. Bones sported dark shadows under his eyes. The sickbay was stretching their resources, tending the injured Telecarthans with a flurry of activity. Everyone was avoiding the crowded sickbay; engineers were resorting to wrapping up their own scrapes and bruises.

Kirk was sagging in his captain's seat, the rescue and transfer of the advanced people had left him exhausted. He had rescued several of the young beings trapped in an underground structure during the meteor shower before the small planet was nearly obliterated by a massive comet. All of the running and rescuing of the wounded had made for sharp edged emotions.

Adrenaline had pumped through them as they had taken off from the planet, trying to beat the speed of the blue-tailed comet. It had collided spectacularly with the planet, showering the ship with debris.

Pavel had helped their evacuation effort. His legs feeling like jelly while he assisted a female with a broken ankle to the ramp of the Enterprise just before takeoff. Chekov had kept disappearing from the bridge before and after the rescue, sometimes for mere minutes, sometimes leaving Sulu to take his place for up to an hour. Spock and Kirk had observed his coming and going with narrowed eyes, though it was difficult to tell if they were harboring anger or mere suspicion.

Chekov swallowed. He was the youngest officer on board, something that McCoy and Scotty were fond of reminding him of. He knew that his hold on his position was tenuous due to his age, but the captain had overlooked his youth in favor of utilizing his advanced skills.

Pavel had endured several concerned queries after his health that past week. He was pale and gaunt, and was losing weight. The women on board had simpered that he must be feeling the pain of a broken heart.

Chekov knew that something was going to give. His duties had multiplied, his feet felt leaden, and his heart raced. There were dizzy spells and severe nausea. He knew that is more than mere nerves affecting his duty. He knew his ailment now, had studied it while off duty. He was not going to get sufficient treatment for it until he was back on Earth, and that was starting to look like many weeks away.

Doctor McCoy could treat him, yes, but the good doctor hardly spoke one friendly sentence to him since he had joined the crew, and now his infirmary was bursting with patients. One more would be unwelcome. In addition to the doctor's troubles came the declining state of The Enterprise's most prized officers.

His captain had been weary; he had seen it every day. Kirk could barely keep his eyes open, and the science officer was getting increasingly agitated over the captain's lack of self-preservation.

Kirk had lost several of his crew in the meteor shower, and his conscience was causing his shoulders to slump, and his eyes to lose their inner light. Doctor McCoy was often seen with the captain when he had time away from the infirmary. They held quiet conversations, with an occasional clap on the shoulder to Kirk as a comfort. Chekov's lack of discipline must be dragging down the captain as well, and Chekov knew that it was only going to get worse.

Spock had given him warnings about his disrespect of duty, and Pavel had little to say in his defense, besides taking up extra time on the bridge to make up for his "breaks." Chekov knew that Spock was going to suggest a resignation once their latest crisis was over. Pavel knew that his dignity demanded that he get it out of the way sooner, that his body demanded he do it sooner, and that is why he had risen from his seat and approached the captain.

"'Kaptain, may I have a word?" Chekov kept his head down in a gesture of submission. He saw Spock tense out of the corner of his eye.

Kirk looked up at him with glazed, distracted eyes.

"Of course, Mr. Chekov. Let me finish putting in this data." Kirk was quickly typing in something to add to his captain's log, an additional notation to his report about their lost crew members and the events leading to their demise.

Chekov nodded, standing patiently to the side while Kirk finished and closed out the digital file. He stood, stretching slightly before walking to the lift with Chekov. Pavel kept well behind him.

"What level?" Kirk asked as the lift door closed.

"Uhh Level four conference rooms." Chekov mumbled.

The captain raised his eyebrows, eyeing the Ensign who seemed to turn several shades paler.

"Are you well, Ensign?"

Pavel nodded briefly and the lift doors opened. Chekov led him to a vacant conference room down the hall, waiting for the captain to get just beyond the door frame before he punched in the button for the steel door to shut.

Captain Kirk's wide blue eyes were looking at him with open curiosity now. They stood alone in the stark conference room, only chairs and a coffee machine resided in the room, cool chrome additions to the unwelcoming environment.

"'Kaptain-" Pavel started and cleared his throat, shuffling his feet a little.

"'Kaptain, I would like to ask for your acceptance of my rezignation."

Kirk blinked. "What?"

"I would like to resign, 'Kaptain, if you would give me your permission." Chekov said quickly.

Kirk seemed to collect himself, but he tilted his head to the side, eyeing his Ensign as if he had grown a second head.

"Why?" Jim Kirk pushed out the question as it were the most obvious one to ask.

"I can't do eet anymore, Kaptain." Chekov hung his head.

"Why can't you? Sulu is your best friend and this ship is like your home. Give me one damn good reason why you want to leave." Kirk's brows were furrowed, tired wrinkles around his eyes making an appearance.

"Commander Spock was going to make me resign anyvay-" Pavel began.

"For what? Being late? I know he's been dishing out discipline and crap, but you've been part of the team for years. You've saved both our lives more times than we could count. The worst he could do is demote you, and I doubt he'll resort to that unless you seriously screw up." Kirk reasoned.

Kirk's voice was raspy from overuse, and Chekov felt another pang of sympathy for the man.

"'Kaptain, you could easily get someone to replace me. Don't trouble yourself with ze matter, sir. Sulu can find someone within the day-" Chekov argued in a low voice.

"Resignation not accepted until you tell me why, Ensign." Kirk said firmly.

"I told you vhy! Now just let me leave ze service! You have plenty of crew to take my place. I have been unruly and dismissive of authority! Zat warrants my immediate dismissal." Chekov snapped, pale face heating up.

"Pavel, you're shaking." Kirk observed.

Kirk was eyeing the usually robust Russian with something akin to worry. He did not make to speak again, only looked Chekov up and down, noting the obvious fatigue. Chekov startled at the use of his first name. The captain seemed to gather his thoughts and finally respond after the brief pause.

"Ensign, I would like to suggest an alternate form of action. Rest and recuperate. Bridge crew has undergone a highly stressful mission these last few weeks, as Mr. Spock is fond of reminding me. Having guests aboard and limited space has been grating on us. I would ask you to sleep on it. It won't always be like this, Pavel."

By all rights, Jim Kirk should be furious with his arguing back, should dismiss him on the spot. Here he was, talking to Chekov like an equal, like a stubborn friend.

"Just, think it over, Chekov. Give yourself a few more days to decide. Show up on the bridge when you can, but think about what you want to do."

Kirk clapped a hand on his bewildered subordinate's shoulder and left Chekov standing there, shaking and pale. The captain walked back to the lift to rejoin his crew.

It was if the strength that had been holding Chekov up had vanished once the captain left. His back bowed as if under a great weight and the shaking worsened. Pavel cupped his face in his hands, wondering how he was going to get through the next few days.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning for some description of an actual disease in this chapter. The disease that will be mentioned is called Ulcerative Colitis. Severity and type of symptoms vary slightly, depending on the individual.

Apologies for my mistakes. This fandom is a lot more complex to write for than I anticipated, that is to say that I'm actually flipping out and second guessing myself. Dammit Jim. I'm an artist, not a writer.

* * *

Everything finally went to hell the next day. Chekov could almost count the minutes until everything fell apart by estimating the conditions and his resilience combined with his willpower.

His health was worsening. He could not get sufficient sleep and food and it was only a matter of time before he could no longer fulfill his duty. He had run a self-diagnoses session with a tricorder and had consulted medical books. There was no simple fix he could pull out of a hat. It was a disease, a particularly embarrassing, painful disease. He had remembered grimacing as read the results from the tricorder after he had run it over his abdomen. His digestive system had ulcers, not just one or two, but a whole coating of them.

Shuddering, he had put his tricorder away and had elected to ignore what he saw. It was a decision based on what he read. Sometimes the disease would go away on its own for a while, or lessen by some degree. The condition was made unpredictable due to the nature of the immune system.

The symptoms he had been experiencing, like dizziness and pale complexion, had been due to blood loss. It was disquieting to realize his intestines were swollen and bleeding. The blood loss and the pain had started out mild, but it had been gradually worsening for the past two weeks. Yet, it had been manageable, strangely easy to hide. He had always had a high pain tolerance and boundless energy. If he was a little bit more subdued and quiet, who would notice?

That was not to say it was entirely simple to hide. He was pushing himself, firing all cylinders to keep going. He just wished he could hold out a little longer.

Shivering and trying to not think about his condition, he got dressed for the day and all but ran to the bridge. Thankfully, it was not a normal day, so his lateness would likely go unnoticed in the chaos of organizing the landing party. If he was not mistaken, they were about to touch down on foreign soil.

They landed and organized into groups to escort the Telecarthans to the surface of Andrian. Some of the beings were too injured to move, so they stayed on board with Bones. The entire crew was helping the race unload their survival material and settling them in with distant relatives or new housing.

The Andrians had prepared housing for them after hearing of the disaster conditions the Telecarthans underwent. They had similar origins and many of them were related in some way to one another. Thankfully, their culture demanded of them the utmost hospitality to those in need.

Spock and Chekov were helping a particularly large Telecarthan family with their directions and their luggage. The children were young, unable to carry much.

The atmosphere of the planet was deceptively pleasant. The morning air was brisk, and the sky portrayed a sunrise similar to the one that occurred on Earth. The only difference was that the sky reflected off a pale turquoise color instead of a pale blue. The same golden hues were embedded in the sunrise. The familiar atmosphere seemed to lend all of the crew a subtle subconscious strength.

Chekov had taken up the most bags of survival material without complaint. While Spock was busy showing the mother the easiest route to a nearby shelter on a hologram map, Chekov walked behind them, staring determinedly at his feet. He took one step at a time, willing the grey edges of his vision to go away.

Spock was just starting to point out that they were almost to their destination when Chekov's legs buckled out from beneath him. He sank onto the pavement road, face hitting the tarmac with a solid thud.

Spock's sharp eyes and hearing caused him to notice first.

"Chekov! Mr. Chekov!" The science officer called. He rushed over, bending over the collapsed officer.

The children started asking shrill questions of Spock and their mother, resulting in some garbled demands of why the tall man had dropped their things and why was he just lying there?

The navigator groaned and shifted under the weight of the bags he had been carrying. Spock started to remove the luggage from Chekov's shoulders, sliding the straps off his arms. He quickly pulled out his communicator.

"Spock to Enterprise, Ensign Chekov has collapsed, we need medical -" He was startled to feel the young officer pull at his pant leg, jerking the fabric insistently.

Chekov was looking at him bleary eyed but with and air of determination.

"Not ze Doctor McCoy. Just get me back to ze ship and I'll be better." Chekov insisted.

If the Russian could read Vulcan expressions, he would have found bemusement in the tilt of Spock's eyebrow and resoluteness in the creases of his face. But Chekov could not interpret Spock, and he took his silence as acceptance of his plan.

The Ensign started to rise, but found himself being pushed down by the second in command. He winced. He knew Spock was wary of touching people, but he was showing considerable force in keeping Chekov lying down. Pavel grunted, shutting his eyes.

Spock had dropped the communicator while forcing Chekov down, but now a voice was calling for Spock to pick it up. Spock took it up again, keeping a firm hand on Chekov's shoulder.

An authoritative voice filtered through the comm.

"Spock, do you have a scanner on you?" The man sounded snappish, insistent.

"Yes, doctor."

Spock retrieved his tricorder from a pocket on the loop of his belt. Chekov froze and shuddered as he heard the ticking noises and beeps from the scanner as he ran it over the fallen ensign. Spock frowned at the screen.

"Doctor, it would be wise to come yourself. I am sending you Ensign Chekov's health scan." Spock plugged in a metal prong from the scanner to the communicator and with the press of a few keys, Spock sent it to the doctor. There was a pause over the device as the doctor skimmed the readings.

"Hell, the kid needs a damn transfusion! Spock, just keep him calm; his vitals are all over the place. Put him through to Sulu if you can. I'll be leaving for your quarter of the capital now." McCoy ended the transmission.

Spock hurriedly called through to Sulu. He was not one to question the doctor's advice, though he failed to see how contacting the other officer would help Chekov.

Hikaru Sulu answered the communicator out of breath.

"Yes, um, Commander Spock?"

Spock handed over the device to Chekov, who seized it with a shaking hand.

"Hikaru! How goes the trek on ze planet?" The Russian asked with new vigor in his voice, though it shook with exhaustion.

Spock watched the interaction with interest. Chekov was putting up a determined front and Spock found himself listening intently despite his duty to disillusion Sulu. Chekov's deception had not factored into his calculations.

There was a pause.

"Good. I just dropped over a dozen parents and children at a shelter. How are your natives? Did you and Spock get them where they needed to go yet?" Sulu asked.

"Not quite." Chekov said shortly.

He glanced over at the mother and their children. They seemed to be shyly gathering their luggage up and giving the Star Fleet officers some space. The mother asked a passing Telecarthan for help and they went on their way, shouldering their baggage. So much for the reputation of Star Fleet courtesy.

"That's a shame. I'm going to start on my way back soon. I'll race you there for a chance to fence together. If you win you get to use my sword." Sulu challenged.

Spock directed a sharp look at the comm., as if scolding Sulu silently. Pavel answered calmly.

"Not up to zat. Maybe another time, Hikaru."

His Japanese friend gave a dramatic sigh.

Chekov gave a soft chuckle. There was a brief pause.

"Why are you using Spock's comm.? Did you lose yours again?" Sulu asked.

Chekov grimaced.

"No, I'm just borrowing his. I have to go now, talk to you later, Hikaru." Chekov said shortly.

If Sulu thought the abrupt dismissal strange, he did not show it.

"Alright, take care Pavel."

Chekov shut off the communicator and handed it back to Spock. Spock took it, glancing around for signs of their rescuers. He could now see why the doctor had instructed him to call Sulu. Already, Chekov was breathing more steadily and he had regained some color in his face. Clearly Sulu's voice had a calming effect on the young ensign.

They were attracting a few stares and they received several offers of help. Spock reassured the Telecarthans that help was on the way. After determining their sincere willingness to assist, Spock asked for a blanket which they quickly produced. That is how Chekov became wrapped tightly in a tan colored blanket that smelled faintly like grass and new straw. Pale face peeking out and curls wildly askew, he looked even younger.

Finally, after several minutes of waiting, a hover vessel was speeding towards them. Spock saw Bones and a nurse in the car with a portable hover bed. A bored looking Telecarthan had the controls to the hover car. He stopped and the medical personnel hopped out.

"Spock, is he stable?" McCoy ran to Chekov, the nurse quick on his heels.

"He is stable, doctor. No shock or confusion has occurred and he appears to be in no pain" Spock responded smoothly.

"Alright kid, how are you feeling?" McCoy gently rolled Chekov onto his back, staring into his eyes and pulling slightly at his lower lids.

"Tired, doctor."

"Yeah, well that's no surprise. You're anemic, dangerously anemic. Not to mention that your intestines have gone through hell and back. We're going to put you on a stretcher and get you back to the Enterprise." McCoy informed him.

Pavel eyed the stretcher they put beside him with some trepidation. He was startled when he felt the doctor put a large, steady hand on the side of his head. His palm was warm, soothing.

"Hey, kid it's alright. We'll take it slow. I know you're dizzy but I don't want to knock you out with meds when you're this weakened." The doctor explained.

Chekov nodded or attempted to until the world spun and he shut his eyes. He felt arms beneath him, moving him to the stretcher. Then, a tricorder was scanning him again and they were moving.

"Inform the captain, I'll be busy with him for a while." The doctor called to Spock.

Chekov opened his eyes again, observing the sky sway around him. The hover car was moving as the medical personnel worked over him.

"You can rest, kid. Some sleep, nutrition, and some meds will get you back on your feet in no time. Just relax." The doctor babbled on, talking while scanning his abdomen with more concentration.

A bout of stomach pain struck Chekov at that exact moment. The bouts had been becoming more frequent and intense this past week, so it was little surprise to him that he should have one now. He squinted his eyes shut and a breath of air hissed out from between his teeth.

"Hell! Pavel! Pavel, your heart rate is going off the charts. What are you feeling, tell me!" McCoy's voice was louder, frantic.

Chekov was unable to answer as tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes. He twisted around slightly, tugging at the stretcher straps that had secured him down.

"I'm going to give you some pain meds, hold still." And then the doctor was jabbing the hypospray against his neck.

The world turned fuzzy and hazy. McCoy pressed a hand to the pulse point under his jaw, feeling Chekov's heart calm to a less frequent beat.

"Pavel, give me an update. No sleeping yet after that stunt. How do you feel?"

"F-fine." Chekov croaked.

McCoy shook his head, mouth tight-lipped.

"You're as bad as Jim. All I'm concerned with right now is keeping you alive until we reach the Enterprise. Then Jim and I are going to have a little talk about how 'fine' you are."

The doctor watched over him with shadowed eyes, hair unkempt from his long working hours in the medbay. He practically reeked of antiseptic.

Chekov blinked slowly. Who was "Jim" again? Oh, the doctor called the captain Jim. Why would they want to talk about him? Was it because of his ignorance of duty and collapsing on the job? He thought it would be okay, that they would quietly send him off to his cabin to sleep the exhaustion off. But here he was, being scanned and yelled at by Bones. He would be dishonorably discharged from service for certain now. With those glum thoughts circling about in his head he drifted off to sleep.

It was truly a miracle that he could sleep with so many people hovering over him, or maybe his waning stamina had pushed him to the edge. Opening his eyes was becoming a herculean task.

Chekov was awoken every now and again by the nurses inserting a line into him, wrapping him up in blankets, and talking over him. Chekov blinked drowsily under the bright lights. He was on a biobed, becoming aware that he was surrounded by numerous other aliens under treatment, and an occasional engineer getting a vaccine.

He was losing track of time, unable to remember his arrival on the ship. The thought was disturbing to his precise mind. Usually he was able to account for what was happening every hour of every day around him. He could only conclude he slept through his transportation. The ship seemed stationary, for which he was entirely grateful. The world was already teetering around enough without additional momentum to contribute to his dizziness.

He awoke one time to Bones tapping his face.

"Hey kid, could you try to stay awake for me? I need to palpate your abdomen." The doctor explained.

His face was fading in and out of focus.

"I'm going to move your gown up so I can feel for any swelling under the skin."

Before Chekov knew what was happening, his medical gown was being cinched up past his waist. He was too hazy from sleep to register much embarrassment from the situation. Steady, gloved hands probed at his stomach. Chekov flinched repeatedly. McCoy pressed harder in several spots, a low whine escaped Chekov's throat.

"I'm almost done, kid. A few more minutes and I'll let you sleep. Does it hurt in one spot in particular? Or is it just all over your stomach?" The doctor asked.

"All-All over." Chekov shut his eyes.

McCoy took off his gloves with a snap.

"Rest up, kid." McCoy said softly before the world around Pavel tipped into darkness again.


	3. Chapter 3

The seesaw between unconsciousness and awareness was worrying, but Pavel only found it inconvenient when he attempted to eat or needed the watercloset.

He remembered that on one particular day he was attempting to choke down fruit flavored gelatin when he started nodding off over the breakfast tray. His head sagged to his chest and his spoon fell with a clatter. His head snapped up at the noise, but his chin nodded down again. A nurse rescued him from face planting in his syrniki pancakes. He was being kept on soft foods, presumably to not irritate his battered intestines.

The doctor rarely had time to see him, due to Chekov sleeping and McCoy releasing the rest of the Telecarthans from the sickbay. The Russian had been given his medical file to peruse, where it held all of the details of his condition and how to recover, but the written file was worthless when Chekov could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to read the first paragraph.

The heavy body ache that had been dogging him for days had eventually manifested itself into a full-fledged fever. Presumably, his immune system was at war with itself. He remembered only bits and pieces of the unpleasant experience: The sensation of chills and heat rippling through his body and the fussing of the nurses.

It seemed that one minute he had been sleeping peacefully and the next moment he was woken from a steady alarm over his head and medication delivered to his neck via hypospray.

McCoy had been there, explaining how he came by the infection; that it was common and expected in his condition. Chekov supposed that should be taken as comforting information, but his mind was too busy elsewhere to benefit from the reassurance. He had been encouraged to sleep through the ordeal. For the most part, he did.

The fever was gone overnight, but Chekov had paid a price. As the fever dissipated, he felt a terrifying paralysis in his limbs from the weakness. They had told him he would recover his strength soon. Pavel had struggled to overcome his pessimism. Being unable to stand for a full day was entirely new to him. When he finally could walk, he stumbled and wavered like a drunk. The experience had been unreal, almost as if he had imagined it. He should not be walking like he was 90 years old when he was in his teens.

He had been informed that Sulu had stopped by to see him while he was unconscious, and that Spock and Kirk kept inquiring after his health. It gave him a warm feeling in his chest that Sulu had come to visit him, but he was unsure whether to believe the doctor about the captain or the science officer.

Chekov found himself reminiscing over the view of the bridge, and the easy atmosphere between friends on the main deck. He had impressions of Uhura visiting him once, and leaving him a flower. When Chekov awoke, the flower was still on his bedside table. Soon, a small stack of antique books sat beside the flower when he woke. Real books!

Chekov became more aware, longing to reach out and touch one. He wanted to feel the rough texture of the cloth bound spine and the smooth paper, so unlike the technological readers that were meant to mimic novels. He got the impression of someone close by. He glanced over, expecting to see a nurse.

A cool Vulcan gaze surveyed him. Chekov blinked, wondering at the strange dream. In all appearances it looked like Spock was keeping a vigil on him.

"Ensign Chekov, how are you feeling?" Spock asked.

"Are you real, Commander Spock?" Chekov furrowed his brow. He thought it best to be polite to his strange vision of the Vulcan.

"If I can determine your meaning correctly, I am very real, Mr. Chekov. You have been in and out of consciousness for a total of four days. I will leave Doctor McCoy to explain your medical condition to you, but I have been told your awareness would increase over the course of the next 48 hours." Spock said coolly.

"Good. Thank you, Mr. Spock." Chekov gave a small smile.

"Mr. Chekov, I have made a miscalculation." Spock sighed.

Chekov stared at him inquisitively. It was a rare thing to hear the Vulcan express emotion in his voice.

"I thought that enforcing disciplinary action on you might induce you to open up about your condition. In my experience, humans argue an injustice when it is dealt to them. I learned from the captain that it had the opposite effect and you thought that my actions were a prelude to your removal from service. I wished to express my regret over the misunderstanding and to inform you that your work has always been exemplary." Spock praised.

Chekov smiled more brightly, face heating up.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock."

"No thanks are necessary, ensign." Spock said shortly.

Footsteps neared them quietly in the sick bay.

"Mr. Chekov, it's good to see that you are awake. If you don't mind Spock, I have another exam to perform on him." Doctor McCoy informed him briskly.

"Of course, doctor." Spock stood.

Suddenly, McCoy was pulling the curtains closed around his bed. Pavel looked around with wide eyes as the sky blue curtains left him alone with the doctor.

"I'm just going to touch your stomach, kid. You don't have to look so scared. Do you think you can get the gown off yourself?" McCoy frowned, looking pensive.

"Sure. Ehm, I'll need a little help with ze ties though."

Chekov propped himself up on his elbows, pushing up his head and shoulders with all his might. To his abject horror, that only resulted in a few inches upright off the pillows.

"I-" Chekov inhaled sharply.

"It's okay kid. You had a nasty fever only a few days ago, and coupled with the blood loss…you're achieving a lot just by having the energy to talk." McCoy mumbled.

The doctor grimly remembered how Chekov had been a few days ago. A nurse had come to the doctor in tears, saying that the poor ensign only had the strength to say a word or two, and most of the time he would simply proclaim he was hungry. The kid had been wasting away to skin and bone.

The doctor was going to feel the bare abdomen to feel the swelling going down, but also to observe the severity of Chekov's diminished physique.

The doctor gently propped him up by the shoulders and undid the knots on the back of the white shift to the waist. The garment was pulled back and he pressed on Chekov's abdomen. The Ensign only flinched slightly, but that was a drastic improvement from when he had been first brought in. In fact, Chekov was practically dozing off during his administrations. But damn, the kid had a lot of weight to gain back.

"Hang on a minute, Chekov. I'll cover you up and then you can go back off to sleep. Do you need anything? Hungry? Cold? You're the only patient in the sickbay. You have me and the nurses at your beck and call." McCoy gently teased the tired Russian.

"No, thank you doctor. When will we be moving again? To space, I mean." Chekov asked drowsily.

"This evening we head out. We're on a routine mission to Elios moon. Things should be pretty calm." McCoy was settling him back down again, tucking the blankets around Chekov.

The blankets were thicker than their standard issue, normally kept for their colder planet excursions. Chekov had needed them due to his rapid loss of body mass and fluid. McCoy had even considered sticking a heating pad in there beside him. Perhaps this evening when they set out into space he might get one ready.

* * *

After two days in space, Ensign Chekov was released from sickbay to his cabin. Sulu helped carry his medications up to his room. The medicines were numerous and strong. McCoy had grumbled about their distance from earth and their insufficient medicine that could not cure Chekov until they had access to better medical facilities.

The medication was helping, though it brought with it a horde of side effects. At least Chekov's internal bleeding had stopped and he could walk unaided.

Chekov followed Sulu haltingly with a blanket secured around his shoulders. Sulu and McCoy had both been in favor of waiting for Chekov to regain most of his strength before he left the infirmary, but they could tell that being in the medbay had been trying on the Russian.

Pavel had been less docile and more irritable of late. Normally, McCoy would have taken that as a sign of lingering pain. Yet, the ensign was uncannily like Jim at times. He had attributed Chekov's mood to a combination of Kirk-like stir crazy and the medication side effects. He had reluctantly let Chekov leave. Though, he felt better that Chekov was in the company of Sulu.

There were fewer officers in the hallways. They were only briefly halted by Uhura. She gave them both a greeting and a small hug to Chekov. Sulu led them higher near the helm of the ship where Chekov resided. He keyed in the access code and stepped aside to let Chekov in the cabin first.

Pavel paused in the doorway.

"Why are there two beds?" He looked at the now cramped room with wide eyes.

"I'm staying with you. Doctor's orders were that you shouldn't be alone for a while." Hikaru explained.

"Vy?" Chekov sat on his mattress with a huff.

"Probably because you can hardly walk, Chekov. You're also off duty until another check up in a few days. You should probably just get some sleep." Sulu told him.

"I already slept for a whole veek! I need to do something." Chekov complained.

"You could help me with my plants down in the lab." Sulu offered.

Out of all the things he and Chekov enjoyed as a hobby, it seemed the safest option. Neither of them were over-fond of chess or any other game. Sparring was out of the question. They both had to feel productive and goal oriented.

"I could do zat." Chekov stood again, wavering slightly on his feet.

Sulu grimaced, but stopped himself from helping the stubborn officer. It was a short walk to Sulu's private botany lab. Chekov nearly paused on the threshold again. Hikaru's lab looked different every time he had entered it. It was kept relatively humid with the plants in large beds connecting to the walls. The lights were bright, but multicolored. The air was clear and fragrant, slightly bitter like an exotic perfume.

The plants were mostly green and leafy, though Sulu's latest project was to keep foreign corals alive in a water tank in the corner. The flowers that Sulu had were large and slightly dangerous looking. They had spotted and striped petals, and spines with an almost fleshy look to them. Chekov avoided the blossoms. The ferns looked harmless enough, though Pavel recalled that Sulu had a stinging fern once.

Spock was a regular visitor to the lab. The high temperatures were agreeable to him as a reminder of Vulcan's climate. He had helped replant some of the more dangerous specimens. He had claimed that his physiology protected him from allergic reactions, unlike the other humans aboard.

Sulu had suspected that Spock enjoyed the work as much as he did after the Vulcan had mumbled "fascinating" during the replanting. Admittedly, it was amusing to see the Vulcan up to his elbows in soil and oversized garden gloves while a cousin of the venus flytrap had snapped at his ear.

Chekov was looking quite pale and unable to wrestle with anything potentially dangerous. Sulu had carefully devised a solution for him. He had started up an herb garden, thinking that it would be a flavorful addition to the crew rations, or if anyone simply wanted a bit of mint for their tea. It was simple and only required Pavel to use his fingers.

Sulu gave him brief instructions, for which Pavel gave him a withering glare. Chekov was, admittedly, a genius. Sometimes, Sulu had forgotten that his best friend was not your average 18 year old. So, Sulu continued tending to the coral. The coral was a lurid violet from a tropical planet by the Otally Formation. It required some preening to the fruity cactus-like buds. The local fish had developed a taste for the abundant buds. Sulu was left to mimic the pruning of the fish to help the coral grow out.

He glanced over at his friend. Pavel was seated in a chair by the beds, poking his bare fingers into the soil and dropping the miniscule seeds in. It was a clean bed that was kept separate from the others for fear of contamination. Pavel squinted, fingers steady and precise as he poked the seeds just barely beneath the soil.

Sulu had his arms deep in the tank, clad in his rubber gloves when the wall conn chirped.

"Mr. Sulu, you are needed at the bridge for your shift. Your replacement did not show up." Uhura's cool voice filtered through the speakers.

Sulu hastily closed up the coral tank and tugged off the gloves, pressing the conn button to answer.

"On my way, Uhura." Sulu informed her.

"Sorry, I have to go Chekov." Sulu exited in a flash, leaving Chekov to stare after him with a startled expression.

Pavel shrugged to himself and continued to plant the seeds. The silence of the lab was soothing. There was no shouting of doctors, or nurses chatting in simpering tones. It was simply Chekov planting Basil, Thyme, and Mint seeds.

A few hours passed in that peaceful way until Chekov ran out of seeds. He turned in the chair, pursing his lips, thinking. Sulu's plants looked lush, healthy, and unable to be cared for more than they were. Pavel would have to go back to his quarters, except the strength in his legs had not returned. Maybe he could rest a few minutes and he would find his vigor restored.

Pavel found himself absurdly wishing for the ability to meditate like a Vulcan. The Russian had difficulty staying still. He was always moving, always analyzing and exploring. Sitting in the uncomfortable chair for hours without distraction was torture. Before long, he was forced to admit to himself that resting was not doing him any favors.

He heard a beeping of the door access code and he smiled. Finally, Hikaru was back! He did a double-take when he saw Scotty enter.

"There you are, we've been looking all over for you. The lads told me that they haven't seen you in the mess hall yet. You have to eat , laddie. You're nothin' but skin and bone." Scotty offered him a hand up.

"I don't think I am." Chekov protested.

"Then you haven't seen a mirror for a while, I'll wager. Come with me, it's nearly dinner." Scotty hefted him up and put a supportive hand on his back.

"Come on, one step at a time. That's it." Scotty coached his shaky steps.

They exited the lab and approached the lift. An engineer passed them by with a wave and a cleaning crew nearly knocked them over in their haste to get down the hallway. Scotty had pulled him protectively out of the way, arm around his shoulders as they bustled by.

When they opened the lift, a familiar smile greeted them. The smile faltered slightly when blue eyes focused on Chekov. What a strange sight they must have made, Chekov thought. Scotty with his arm looped around his blanket-clad shoulders and their contrasting red and gold shirts, displaying their differing departments aboard the ship.

Jim had gotten on a lift headed towards the mess hall when the lift stopped to let in more individuals. The doors opened and two familiar people had climbed in. Scotty was the same as ever, but with a slight crease in his brow when he looked at his companion.

Chekov looked like death. The ensign was leaning heavily on the Scotsman, wrapped up in a cover that dwarfed his small frame. Dark shadows ringed his eyes and his skin was so pale that it looked jaundiced from discoloration. Chekov had thought they looked like a ridiculous couple, but Jim saw a fatherly man taking care of someone who looked to be on death's door.

"Should you be out of bed, Ensign?" The captain asked as the lift moved down.

"The doctor cleared me, sir." Chekov mumbled.

"Aye, but not for duty. I'm escorting him down to the mess to get a hearty meal. The lad's still a bit shaky on his feet." Scotty added.

The captain nodded his approval.

Chekov was not amused to be talked about like a child, but had no stamina to make a scene over it. When the lift stopped, Chekov walked out first. The captain and the technician followed close behind. Scotty clapped Chekov on the back.

"You go have a seat, lad. I'll bring back a bit of a variety for you to choose from. Just rest your legs." Scotty told him. Because really, the lad looked about to faint

Chekov followed the orders automatically; glad to not be waiting in line for the replicator. He sat at an empty table in the crowded mess hall and let his eyes slip shut. It was cool. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and shivered. The ever present lethargy and cold was wearing on him. He had become acclimated to the cold in Russia, but his years at the academy had softened his resistance.

McCoy had also said that his immune system was hardly functioning while on the steroids. The high dosage made him dizzy and prone to headaches. McCoy had also given him a portable heart monitor and instructions to regularly check his heart rate while under the strong medication.

Chekov heard two people sit at his table. His fatigue and headache made him close his eyes until Scotty lightly touched his shoulder.

"Time to look lively lad, and tuck in." Scotty pushed his heavily laden dinner tray in between them while he took up a sandwich.

Chekov sighed miserably and opened his eyes. Jim Kirk sat opposite of them, digging into a bowl of pasta with vigor, thoughtful eyes still on the Ensign.

While Chekov tentatively picked at the fruit slices on the tray, Jim and Scotty began discussing their upcoming supply trade once they reached the Elios moon and how Kirk was going to negotiate the trade. This led into Scotty discussing how simple trade missions could go foul. He only paused in his stories to advise Chekov to "eat something substantial instead of picking about."

The ensign would have rolled his eyes at the advice if he did not already feel like a child under care of the senior officers. Chekov was tempted to follow the order, but his stomach had shown itself to be sensitive.

Deciding that fluids would be a wise choice, he eyed the bowl of soup Scotty had gotten him. It was not Borscht by any stretch of the imagination. It was close to a rendition of Cock-a-Leekie soup, if he was not mistaken. How very Scotty to get a traditional Scottish dish for him to try.

He picked up a spoon and tentatively tasted it. He was pleasantly surprised with the strong, hearty flavor. The soup warmed his chilled body from the inside out. He had almost a cup of the warm broth and long-grained rice in him before his stomach started to churn. He winced with regret. He had forgotten how salt disagreed with him.

Chekov had not contributed a word to his superiors' conversation, but when he stood and excused himself they both looked up.

"You feeling alright, laddie?"

Chekov shook his head and covered his mouth.

He left them sitting there while he walked briskly to the restroom and lost the soup in one of the stalls. He hurriedly closed the stall door, eyes tearing up with the pain of vomiting. It was at times like this that Chekov thought he might not be getting better, that he would just relapse again…or starve. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, reflecting bitterly that he had lost what little sustenance his body had been capable of taking in.

Stumbling to the sink, he looked in the mirror. Impossibly deep shadows ringed his eyes and his alabaster white skin likened him to a ghost. He had even lost some hair. He looked starved, small, and exhausted. He mumbled a curse in Russian. He had better go and join his comrades while he could still walk. His morale was sinking, and right now, it looked like his fellow officers were the only people capable of keeping him afloat.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: I am basing an aspect of Starfleet regulation off of British Royal Navy practices. I read entirely too much Napoleonic War fiction. Here is the last chapter.

* * *

The captain and the engineer were being so kind to Chekov. Though ill, he was not blind to their concerned looks and near-touches of support. It was like they thought he was suddenly a piece of fine china, liable to break under any pressure. The captain had looked particularly horrified, and Chekov remembered that Kirk had not seen him for the duration of his sickbay stay. It seemed unlikely that he could alleviate Kirk's worry, but that did not mean he could not try.

When Chekov came back out he nearly ran into the captain who was just outside. They awkwardly bumped shoulders and Pavel stumbled slightly.

"Oh, 'Kaptain." Chekov mumbled.

Kirk steadied him.

"Did you know zat was a poem by Valt Vhitman?" Chekov said conversationally.

Kirk shook his head, brow furrowed.

"Oh Kaptain! My Kaptain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every rack, -something something-The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting…I forget. But it vas a good poem." Chekov yawned.

Kirk raised his eyebrows but made no comment. His eyes were subtly twinkling with amusement as he steered him back to his seat. Chekov smiled slightly, knowing that he had managed to lift the captain's mood. It was the least he could manage when his illness seemed to cast a pall over the atmosphere at the table. They took their seats back and the engineer surveyed him before winding the fallen blanket back around Pavel's shoulders.

Scotty rubbed Chekov's back and the Russian leaned into the touch. His heart was beating wildly out of rhythm and he pressed his hand over it. Cursed steroids.

"We should take you back to the good doctor." Scotty mused.

"I'll be fine, I swear. I'll just see if I can keep a few bites of something down. The salt in the soup was too strong for my stomach." Chekov dipped one the fruit pieces in a packet of peanut butter and nibbled on it.

So much for eating something wholesome; now he was just settling for anything bland that had calories. He inwardly shivered with revulsion for eating so soon after being sick, but he was desperate to get something in his stomach. He knew that it was necessary for recovery, also that McCoy might murder him if he did not try to eat.

Scotty suddenly stood.

"I have to go, Jim. My shift is up next and I have two new recruits in the bunch this voyage. I need to be down there in case something happens." Scotty said.

"Sure. I'll take care of Chekov."

"Thanks. You hang in there, son." Scotty turned to him, patting Pavel on the back.

The words fell awkwardly from his heavy accent; it was not a phrase the Scotsman would usually use, even if he had children. He had picked up Jim's and McCoy's American terminology in the service and he dropped the new title knowing that it would hold significance, would make them pause.

The ensign blushed to the roots of his hair. The Scotsman had said it so warmly that Chekov was momentarily dumbstruck. Then Scotty was walking away, leaving Chekov sitting alone with the captain.

When Chekov was finished, which seemed like in very little time, the captain cleaned up and waited for Chekov to follow him out of the mess hall. Pavel was biting his lip. Kirk was hardly his best friend. Yes, they had talked and joked, faced harsh planets together, as well as wormed their way out of several dangerous situations while relying on each other's skills. This was a different atmosphere than they were accustomed to. The captain looked after everyone under his command, but never so literally.

After walking, the lifts felt like a godsend, carrying them up high on the ship within a short span of time. They got out of the last lift that was nearest to Chekov's cabin. Chekov concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, blinking owlishly to clear his vision.

The hallway seemed longer in the presence of his captain. Through sheer force of will, the Russian kept on a straight, steady course. Chekov was restraining himself from leaning on the walls and pausing to breathe. His energy was spent. When they reached his cabin doors, he leaned into the doorframe while he typed in the key code. The door slid open and it was all Chekov could manage not to fall to his knees on the floor.

As if sensing Chekov's bout of weakness, Kirk supported him like Scotty did. The arm the captain pressed on his waist was steady and warm, as were his shoulders that he tugged Chekov's arm over.

"Almost there, ensign." He mumbled

Luckily, his strength lasted to get him into bed without the captain doing any heavy lifting.

Chekov opened his mouth, about to thank his captain when Doctor McCoy bustled through his door, tricorder, hypospray, and all.

"Hello, Jim. Scotty called me for the kid." McCoy said briskly.

The captain hurriedly made to walk back out the door before the doctor calmly ordered, "stay."

Captain Kirk sent his friend a baffled look, which went ignored. McCoy was busy scanning Chekov and telling him he was going to get a hypo for the nausea. He arranged the blankets around the ensign as if tucking him in.

"Any other symptoms beside the vomiting and fatigue?" The doctor asked coolly after administering the hypo.

Chekov shook his head.

A new tension permeated the room when McCoy crossed his arms and stood with his feet planted apart.

"I have a bone to pick with you, ensign." McCoy said in all seriousness.

There was an awkward silence until Kirk snorted.

"Stop your giggling, man. I need to have a serious talk with both of you." McCoy said, voice dangerously low.

It was the tone more than the words that shut the captain up. Kirk glowered at McCoy. Bones had only sounded like that when he was about to do something he found repulsive or distasteful.

"Mr. Chekov, let me see if I have the facts straight. You were hemorrhaging on a daily basis two weeks before we arrived on the surface of Andrian. You were also suffering from nausea, vomiting, and a horde of other equally unpleasant symptoms, including acute abdominal pain for the span of those two weeks. Your response was to see Jim and ask for resignation from the fleet, which he refused in favor of letting you reconsider. Is that all correct, ensign?"

Pavel nodded.

"Give me an affirmative, ensign." The doctor said coldly.

"Yes, doctor." Pavel's heart rate was speeding up, looking up at the doctor with wide eyes.

"Bones, what-" Kirk began.

The doctor held out a hand to halt his speech.

"Captain Kirk, you should take this man under arrest for making himself unfit for duty under violation of Starfleet regulation." McCoy said, emotionless.

If Chekov looked pale before, he was whiter than his bed sheets now, and seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

"Bones! You know Chekov is one of my lost loyal officers on board. He's saved our lives-" Kirk protested.

"Consider, Jim. What are the violators of that regulation like? Why do they make themselves unfit?" The doctor cut him off.

The captain paused, eyes distant for a moment while he mulled his thoughts over. He directed a fiery glance at the doctor every so often. Chekov had his mouth clamped tightly shut.

Finally, Kirk said, "The crew members who typically make themselves unfit for duty are displeased with the service and have a desire to quit and live on medical pension. I've been trying to tell you he isn't like that, Bones!" The captain said hotly.

"Then why not seek medical help? He knew what was happening. He could hardly walk and yet he still forced himself on duty. Can you explain, Mr. Chekov?" McCoy raised an eyebrow at the Russian.

The captain was looking royally pissed at the doctor. He breathed through his nose, body tense.

Chekov swallowed.

"I swear I vas not thinking like that. I vas afraid that I vould be unwelcome in the sickbay. There were already so many Telecarthans in need of your services with fatal injuries. I would just be in ze way." Chekov explained.

"Kid, I have a large staff. If I run out of them, hell, I bet I could even coach Jim into doing nursing." McCoy sat on the edge of the bed, giving his friend a placating look.

"I did not think zat what I had could be treated until we got back to Earth." Chekov said softly.

"It's true that the only human cure is on earth, but that doesn't mean I can't help you stay healthy in the meantime. I can guarantee that you never would have reached this point if you had come to me sooner." McCoy lectured him.

Chekov nodded, eyes downcast. He was sitting up, but looked pale enough to tumble over. The angry façade that had started to drop around McCoy disappeared altogether when he reached out and wound his arms around the ensign. The Russian froze. McCoy rubbed small circles into his back, forcibly reminding Kirk that the doctor had a daughter, and was submitting to his paternal instincts.

"I'm sorry that I had to scare you, kid. If it's any consolation you scared the hell out of me this past week. I thought we might lose you. Hell, even Spock looked close to shedding a tear after he visited. Jim kept on letting the bridge officers skive off shifts to see you." McCoy said gruffly.

"I am not under arrest?" Chekov asked, still stunned.

"Course you aren't. But, if you do this to me again, you are going to end up putting me and half of the crew into early retirement." McCoy admonished, letting go of the wide eyed Russian.

Chekov blinked up at the doctor. The captain stepped closer to ruffle Chekov's hair in a brotherly display of affection.

"You listen to the doc. Though I'm not sure if I approve of threatening to arrest him in his condition, Bones. You could have given him a heart attack." Kirk raised his eyebrows at his friend.

"I was monitoring him and it was necessary. I don't want a repeat of this, Mr. Chekov." McCoy said firmly.

Chekov was blinking more heavily, barely able to keep his eyes open. Nonetheless, he nodded in silent assent.

"Lie down, Ensign. Jim and I will leave you alone to rest. But if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask." McCoy said lightly.

"Thank you, doctor…captain." Chekov gave them one last warm look before he slipped down from his elbows onto the bed and let his eyes drift shut. He was carried away by the tide of unconsciousness, feeling more warm and relaxed than he had felt in weeks.

* * *

_1 week later_

"Captain on ze bridge!"

Kirk paused, smile radiant.

"Report, Mr. Spock." Kirk said, walking directly to his captain's chair. Though he spoke to his first officer, his eyes were only on one person.

Mr. Chekov sat in his usual chair, sending a grin at the captain before turning back to his work. His hair was slowly starting to thicken and grow back again. He was no longer dangerously thin, but he still had a lot of weight to gain back to appear as normal. The shadows under his eyes were present, but no longer freakishly dark.

Pavel Chekov was not the picture of health, but it would do for now. Just having him back in the room seemed to be having a positive effect on the bridge. Sulu sat up straighter in his chair, smile plastered on his face. Bones was standing at attention with a casual, secretly pleased smirk. Uhura's eyes looked suspiciously wet. Spock was standing closer to the rest of the bridge crew, station vacant.

"Trade has been completed with the Elios moon. Structural damage repairs from Cratos debris are finished. All personnel are awaiting your command, sir." Spock said with his usual coolness, but Kirk saw the Vulcan's features soften when he looked at their youngest member of the bridge crew.

"Set a course for home."

Chekov was gaping like a fish.

"Do you have a complaint, Mr. Chekov? I can have selfish reasons for wanting to go to Earth." Kirk challenged.

Chekov clamped his jaw shut.

"Of course, captain. Plotting a course for Earth." Pavel quickly started typing their navigation into the computer while Kirk turned on the live audio feed.

"Crew of the Enterprise." The captain paused, listening as if he could hear all of the personnel aboard come to a standstill.

"We have spent almost exactly a year in space, away from the academy." Spock was nodding at him in confirmation of the time.

"We are heading back to Earth. I know that for many of you, the Earth may be a bittersweet homecoming. But know this, I have watched this family, the family aboard the Enterprise, strengthen this past year. As you return, you should all feel pride for your accomplishments." There was cheering and clapping echoing through the halls.

Kirk smiled and leaned closer to the small microphone.

"We are taking a short leave on the planet to rest and refuel. We should take time to remember the three men that were lost to us on the planet of Cratos during the meteor shower and one we nearly lost on Andrian."

Everyone on the bridge turned to stare at the Russian. Kirk could practically feel the mortification of his navigator all the way from across the deck.

"You all know that serving the Federation is a noble pursuit. We save the lives of refugees and strangers, but we often forget that our fellow crewmen are our responsibility too." Kirk paused, taking a moment to reflect on the loss of the three crew members.

Even as his expression turned bitter, he saw Ensign Chekov sitting in front of him. The teenager's bright, spirited nature was infectious, and Kirk found his smile reappearing. Perhaps he should not be tallying up the lives lost as much as the lives saved. They had saved many beings this voyage, civilian and crew member alike.

"So, as you rejoin everyone at the Academy, remember the others that you serve with. I will expect all of you back after two weeks." Kirk clicked off the conn.

"Is that sufficient time?" Kirk glanced up at McCoy.

The doctor's gaze was directed at his young patient, surveying his progress.

"More than enough time, Jim." The doctor nodded.

"Good. Let's go into warp, Mr. Sulu." Kirk said firmly.

"Yes, sir."

Sulu pressed down the silver lever and the U. S. S. Enterprise glided safely back towards Earth.

* * *

The End

* * *

Author Notes: There actually is no cure for this disease yet, but someday there might be. I'm certainly counting on it after four years of no medical treatment and two years of chemotherapy.

Star Trek is one of those awesome fandoms with a multitude of fascinating characters that keeps me living life. Thank you so much for reading this IBD awareness fanfiction! *hugs*


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